Consonants Aren't Really That Important
by FaithOfTheHeart
Summary: A quick little one shot, inspired by one of my favourite outtakes from season two's DVDs. Set after Broken Bow, Jon and Trip discuss the finer points of the English language. Jon/Trip friendship


A/N: Hello again, and welcome to my latest story. As my lovely reviewers will know, my three previous ones have been real angst-fests. Nothing makes my plot bunnies happier than putting a certain chief engineer through the wringer of whumpage!

So to give the poor boy a bit of a break, here's a little one-shot which, I hope, will give you a bit of a giggle too.

The idea for it comes from a wonderful outtake from season two, where Jolene Blalock has some trouble with her lines. Although the main response comes from Scott Bakula, you can also hear Connor Trinneer off camera, giving her the 'almost helpful' advice I've used for this story's title.

It then occurred to me that Trip has problems himself with finishin' what he's sayin'. So here's what I hope is a light hearted scene, set just after the events of Broken Bow. I hope you enjoy reading it as much as I enjoyed writing it.

Oh, and special thanks too, of course, to Connor himself, for giving us the sexiest accent in Starfleet.

* * *

Consonants Aren't Really That Important

Jonathan Archer studied the plateful of food in front of him, not knowing whether to eat it, or try to climb it.

To celebrate the start of this landmark mission, Chef had really surpassed himself. A feast of pasta and meatballs, with enough garlic bread to see off a galaxy's worth of vampires. It had his stomach turning somersaults of happy anticipation, which was rather a shame - because Trip had chosen this exact same moment to tell him all about his day. Right down to the tiniest, most trivial detail.

"...those engines purrin' like a box o' kittens... I'm tellin you, Jon, I can't've asked for a better team, all workin' their tails off, an' no complaints from any of 'em... though I _might_ need to keep an eye on Russo an' Kelsey... caught 'em havin' a li'l chat this mornin' that looked _reeeeal_ cosy... might need to tell 'em about that little sweet spot Travis took me to, an'... hey, did you know about that, Jon? _Amazin_' place, you've just _gotta_ see it."

Listening to him, Jon felt admiring amusement join a ripple of _'damn-it-Trip-I'm-trying-to-eat-here_!' irritation. How the hell did he do that? Eat, talk, and breathe - all at the same time?

Then he smiled, fondly shaking his head as that deep Southern drawl continued to flow effortlessly over him. Through eight years of friendship, and twelve years in Starfleet, this really shouldn't have surprised him. Multi tasking and Trip Tucker went together like - well, prime rib and pecan pie.

Which, of course, his chief engineer was demolishing with consummate ease. Which, in turn, led to another _'how-the-hell_?' question. How could he wolf down all that food, and still stay so damn skinny?

Between mouthfuls, he was still talking too. Or, from that so proudly held heritage -_ talkin'_. All of which set Jonathan Archer to - _thinkin_'. Apparently, the 'g' in '...ing' just didn't exist in Trip Tucker's personal alphabet. Of all those other, charmingly missed consonants, this was the one that always seemed to fall by the wayside.

He'd never thought about it much before, but the more he did now, the more it amused him. Add that to the laughter that was now coming nicely to the boil, and - well, you had the recipe for trouble. With a capital T.

He tried, he _really_ tried, to push it back to a harmless simmer. Hell, you didn't make a Starfleet Captain without being able to tough it out. But the battle _this_ Cap'n was fighting now could only ever have one outcome. Waves of silent amusement were transorming themselves into quivers of helpless laughter.

Halfway through buttering his latest roll, Trip noticed the shoulders to his right start to jiggle. Needless to say, he wanted to know why.

"Wha's so funny?"

Damn if those shoulders weren't jiggling even more now. It was enough to produce a minor miracle. Halfway through his dinner, Trip Tucker forgot he was hungry.

Putting down his knife, he threw a puzzled glare towards the friend, the Cap'n, who had now dissolved into an inexplicable fit of the chuckles.

"Wha's got _you_ sittin' on a nest o' feathers?"

Oh, _hell_.

Jon knew he was now in serious trouble. If he answered Trip's question, there'd be that hell to pay. But if he _didn't_ answer it, then he'd be sent there with some fiendish revenge thrown in for good measure. The last time he'd ticked off his chief engineer, trying to keep him in the dark over that surprise birthday party last year - well, even now, his shower controls were still suspiciously temperamental.

"It's, uh... nothing, Trip. I was just, um... thinking about Klaang, and our first contact with the Klingons. Wondering what else we'll encounter on this mission."

Was there the slightest chance that his best friend was buying that? Was there _hell_.

"Oh no, you don't. You're not gettin' that _'oh, it's nothin' Trip'_ hogwash past me _this_ time. No, _somethin's_ got ya gigglin' here, an' _I_ wanna know what it is!"

Oh, boy.

Caught between a rock and an _extremely_ hazardous place, Jon fought his way out of it the best, and only, way he knew how. Armed with his brightest smile. And just the right tone of big brother authority.

"Really, Trip, it's - it's nothing. Now, eat your dinner before it gets cold."

Rolling his eyes, Trip then transferred the response he'd used on the real Mrs Tucker to the friend who, so often, could out-mother his own mother.

"Yes, mom."

All indignation aside, Trip was more than happy to do as he was told this time, and focus his attentions back to his food. Between mouthfuls, he also had to broach the idea which, he was sure, would get his friend and Cap'n's full support.

"An' now the excitement with Klaang's all over, I'm still thinkin' I could rustle up a swimmin' pool... nothin' fancy, just a little place to go dippin' in after a rough day... somethin' tells me we're gonna get a whole more ton o' those out here... an' the last thing you'll be wantin' is a crew gettin' themselves all stressed an' plannin' a mutiny, an'... oh, for the love of all things holy, what is_ so_ damn **funny**?"

In real danger now, not just of his chief engineer's revenge but also sliding clear off his chair, Jon forced the latest wave of laughter back under control with about the same hope of success as King Canute. Hauling himself back into what, he hoped, was a more dignified position, he risked a quick glance into the face beside him - and knew, again, that he was in serious, _serious_ trouble.

He was getting 'the look' now. Or, as Jon preferred to wisely silently call it, the 'Tucker Ten Yarder.' The glare that reversed those nine years between them, and made him feel like _he_ was the long suffering little brother.

Yep, no doubt about it. Trip Tucker was now _officially_ ticked. And the only way he could avoid the full force of its wrath was to take his frequently endangered life into his hands, and just come clean.

"It's - It's your g's, Trip. Or, um... rather the... uh, lack of them."

For twenty clear seconds, Trip stared at him as if he'd grown an extra head. His eyebrows performed a mesmerising dance of _'what-the-hell_?' bewilderment. Finally, he managed a soft, deceptively calm request for clarification.

"My _what_?!"

_'Deep breaths, Jon... and get ready to kiss your butt goodbye.'_

"Well, it's - it's just the tiniest thing, Trip, but you... uh, do tend to drop your g's when you're finishing a word. I - I mean, it's nothing to disparage you, Trip. It makes your accent, and where that accent comes from, as special and as unique as you are."

Those eyebrows had risen right into his forehead now, above pools of politely incredulous blue. Not sure if this was a sign of impending doom, or possible salvation, Jon ploughed on.

"And - And it's a real hit with the ladies too! I - I mean, seriously, Trip, they - they just _love_ it. Draws 'em in like flies to a honey pot."

A pause, while he realized what he'd just said. A longer one, while two disbelieving eyes threw his embarrassment right back in his face. And a third, before he managed a more or less dignified afterthought.

"Well, uh... so - so I've heard."

Having steered himself back into the very tightest of corners, Jon then realized there was no possible way this time to get himself out of it. All he could do was watch Trip's face change through its whole repertoire of expressions - and wait for his life to come to a premature end.

"Hm."

Or not.

With that briefest of responses, Trip had shrugged his shoulders, and returned to slicing up his steak. Thrown for a complete loop, Jon sat watching him, not sure if he dared to believe that he'd escaped so lightly.

Through eight years of friendship, he thought he had his chief engineer pretty much pegged now, but - well, at moments like these, he really wasn't so sure. While one of the warmest, friendliest people he'd ever met, Trip's moods could still change with the same speed as his beloved engines, and -

"Well, you know, Captain... consonants are not really _that_ important."

- apparently, so could his accent. Not to mention his ancestry. From good ol' Southern boy, he now sounded like a descendant from the primmest of British royalty.

As far as Jon could remember, though, he'd never seen _any_ member of that Monarchy favour anyone with such a mischievous smile. Such glints of humour twinkling through their eyes. If Trip had taken any kind of offence from what he'd just said, he was bearing it with reassuringly good humour. Plus, of course, that finely honed sarcasm.

"So, you think this pool idea is worth consider-_ing_?"

Whether in relief, or just the patience he always felt when faced with this infectious enthusiasm, Jon smiled back, and nodded.

"If you can find some space that's viable, Trip, then... yes, it would definitely be worth considering."

"Yeah, you might even get me hooked on that water polo of yours," Trip grinned, slipping back into his natural accent as easily as slipping his hand into a glove.

Stacking his now neatly scraped plate on top of Jon's, he then rose to his feet - leaning over Jon's shoulder, to make him a promise that well and truly sealed his fate.

"An' I am_ soooooooo_ gonna whup your ass."


End file.
